All That Glitters
by worldaccordingtofangirls
Summary: AU. Arthur is an angel stuck to the Earth. Alfred Jones is a human boy. It's not the most ideal relationship, but they manage to find a bit of gold in each other nonetheless.


Angels like pretty things because they cannot touch them. They love what glints in the sun because the light and warmth lie just beyond their reach. They covet golden trinkets and meaningless baubles by cataloging them in their minds like snowy magpies, transparent on clear days and nothing more than shadows in the rain. They are colorless, pure white like winter sunshine, and ironically cannot help but to seek a stain on their existence.

Unlike the others, Arthur has known what it is to be alive. He has felt the sun on his face, the earth beneath his fingernails, his heart in his mouth. He has tasted bread and water, he has said his prayers, he has felt pain and joy and love fierce and human in his chest and, unlike the others, he has known what it is to be dead. His brothers and sisters spend most of their time with Father. Arthur cannot help but to cling to the Earth.

Centuries pass and he can no longer remember when he died, or how, or if anyone mourned his passing. He seems to have always simply been there, neither living nor dead because he had lived a righteous life. He is the mist rising in the morning and the shadows of dusk softening the horizon in the evening and the first star twinkling into place when night falls. He sees every corner of the world, and no corner of the world sees him.

And then, all of a sudden, he sees Alfred, and Alfred is different.

Arthur first laid eyes on him outside of school, as the students poured onto the grounds like a flood unleashed. He was initially attracted by the gold of his hair, winking in the full autumn sunlight, and the sound of his laugh, like a crystal glass being struck with a spoon but stronger. He was talking to another boy with violet eyes and a soft smile. Arthur concentrated and saw their souls, hovering in their mouths at the center of the tongue.

Alfred's was golden, gleaming from where it nestled high and proud just behind his teeth (which glitter like invaluable pieces of ivory when he laughs), and since then, Arthur has not gone a day without seeing him.

He has fallen in love, and the feeling sits warm in his chest, flowing through his veins to reach his fingertips almost like blood. The world comes into sharper contrast, and he soon remembers when and how he died. It happened centuries ago, when he was sixteen years old. He caught tuberculosis and passed away during the night. His mother had wept, and torn at her hair. His memories begin to grow clearer with every passing day, and when Alfred smiles, Arthur imagines that he can feel his pulse again.

He rapidly grows addicted to the feeling.

He has the misfortune to soon realize that he has forgotten that love is bittersweet. Every day is a reminder that Alfred cannot see him, that Alfred cannot know that there exists someone who thinks that his soul - hidden fat and golden just behind his lips - is the most precious thing on heaven and earth and everywhere in between. As Arthur's love swells, pressing almost uncomfortably against his ribs, his throat, the pain of impossibility grows. He would weep bitterly were he able.

And then, Alfred begins to look over his shoulder. He begins to gaze uncertainly at himself in the mirror. He begins to go suddenly quiet at odd moments, as if listening for a rustle or a footstep. At first, Arthur thinks nothing of it.

One night, a horror film leaves Alfred sniffling beneath the sheets of his bed. All Arthur can see is the glow of his soul through the thin blankets, quavering with distress, and he aches with the desire to comfort him to such an extent that he floats to the head of the bed, flapping his wings silently, and presses the flat of his palm to Alfred's trembling back, though he knows the effort is useless.

A moment passes, and Alfred's whimpering suddenly subsides entirely. He sits up and Arthur blinks. Alfred is starting purposefully into what should be nothing.

"I've always been a suspicious guy," he says, "I believe in magic and ghosts and stuff."

Arthur feels a jolt run through his chest, as if he had a heart to skip a beat.

"I know you're here," says Alfred quietly after a long moment. "I don't know what you are, or why…but I know you're here, and I'm almost completely sure that…" He pauses, twisting the sheets into one hand. "That you don't want to hurt me."

Arthur himself hurts at the very thought. _No_, his mind cries, _never_.

After a moment, Alfred smiles and nods.

"Alright, then," he says. "Thanks." He clears his throat and presses his face back into the pillow, unaware that he has effectively laid his head in Arthur's lap.

"Goodnight," he mumbles.

Arthur puts a hand in his hair and wonders what it feels like between his fingers.

_Goodnight_, his mind whispers back.

* * *

They have learned how to speak. Not in words, of course; angels know that words are silly things, nothing more than mirrors used to reflect the ghosts of what haunts our hearts and minds. These mirrors shatter when we die, and we discard the sparkling bits without a second thought, but Alfred cannot know this because it would frighten him.

He is so expressive, and Arthur knows it would frighten him.

Rather, they speak in gestures. Half a cup of tea left cold on the counter is Arthur's good morning. When Alfred smiles softly as he dumps it down the sink, he is asking how Arthur slept, though by then he has begun to guess that Arthur doesn't sleep at all. He is right, of course. Arthur watches his soul bob golden against the pillow all night, imagining that he is protecting him.

Alfred goes upstairs to get ready and Arthur follows silently behind, upsetting the dust on the banister when he bats his wings, once, twice. Alfred notices and smiles, running his index finger along the wood, sending a flurry of motes glittering into the air. They reach his bedroom, and Arthur tries not to watch as Alfred strips away his pajamas, as he examines his chin in the spotted bathroom mirror for traces of brown sugar stubble that aren't really there. He has the feeling that Alfred has begun to be able to tell when Arthur is looking at him, so he struggles to be discreet, but this is easier said than done.

Alfred's soul, he soon decides, in the best distraction. He yawns, and there it is, brilliant even if only for a fleeting moment, nestled heavy and fat on the center of his tongue. If he is honest with himself, Arthur is exhilarated only by the briefest sight of it, though he is rather surprised when he is hovering behind Alfred in class and first feels the desperate urge to taste it. He quells the rush of panic long enough to work over his memories and eventually manages to recall the feeling of lust, jagged and hot in the pit of his stomach. The fear almost immediately subsides into comfort at remembering another human emotion, and curiously enough, gratitude for Alfred swells in his chest.

However, now he is faced with a dilemma. He floats home beside Alfred, flapping his wings occasionally just to upset the carpet of leaves on the sidewalk. Alfred glances to his side and Arthur smiles, reaching down to take his hand, his breath catching when he brushes up against his side and his warmth dances along his skin, though of course Alfred cannot feel in return. Perhaps Arthur is something like a cool breeze against his arm; he considers that he would be infinitely gratified if he so much as raised goosebumps.

A dilemma indeed.

Arthur begins to wonder if Alfred would know if he made a dive for his soul, and the prospect of testing this hypothesis begins to grow increasingly tempting as Arthur reasons that humans are not even aware that their own souls exist. How would Alfred know, how would Alfred know? Surely he couldn't; it would be impossible, and the idea quickly becomes maddening, irresistible. He decides that he must try, at the very least, even if his courage fails him a hairsbreadth away from Alfred's lips.

With this resolve, he waits until Alfred has finished playing football in the yard, blathering at Matthew between mouthfuls of their mother's meatloaf, studying distractedly with his computer open on his desk, showering and brushing his teeth and drawing a message for Arthur in the fog on the spotted mirror with his index finger.

_See you in the morning_, it reads, _but not literally, of course. _

Arthur loves him so much it aches.

He waits until his breathing evens out and the light of his soul begins to shine through his half-parted lips, gently illuminating the angles of his face. He hovers closer, beating his wings gently to stay afloat, before he carefully situates himself on Alfred's stomach, bracing his hands on his chest and almost losing his courage when he feels the beat of his heart through his palms.

No, he shakes his head, no, just try.

And with that, he tips his neck down (hesitating just for a moment as the golden glow washes over his face and he is startled to realize that it is like bathwater on his cheeks), and kisses him.

Everything is warm, alive. Arthur almost pulls back just because it is so overwhelming. Alfred is breathing against him; he sighs a little bit, making a curious living noise in the back of his throat, and Arthur's heart stutters. He waits one final moment, then he pushes forwards. It is too late to stop now.

His tongue brushes the soul, and Alfred jerks awake as Arthur's entire body jerks as if with electricity and he lets out a gasp of pain and shock.

A moment passes in surprise and fear before Arthur realizes that he has just gasped

Air rushes through his lungs, down his windpipe, and it is the most painful and glorious thing he can remember in a long time. He literally cannot tear himself from Alfred's mouth.

He gasps again.

Alfred closes his eyes and returns the kiss, and not a moment later something strikes Arthur's chest.

A _heartbeat_, he realizes.

A heartbeat.

* * *

Cold days upset Arthur. The air cuts down his throat when he breathes and his plumage shivers frantically every time he beats his wings. People always brush through him more frequently than usual; they are in such a hurry to get back somewhere warm that they don't pay much attention to the chill that prickles down their skin because they have just walked into an angel. In addition, their breath fogs in front of them and catches in Arthur's hair or in his wings and makes him feel thick and heavy as if he were covered in sweat. They huddle together and sometimes he is squeezed between them and can taste the vibrant beating of their hearts and feels sick with loneliness.

This is the first truly cold day since he met Alfred, since Alfred woke in the middle of the night and spoke to him, since he unwittingly fell asleep with his head pillowed in Arthur's lap. The sunlight is sharpened like shards of yellow glass that shatter all about when they strike the sidewalks. After school, Alfred and Matthew go to get some coffee before Matthew joins a neighborhood game of field hockey. Alfred bids his brother farewell, cuddling his steaming mug in both hands as he returns to the sidewalk and picks up a cheerful pace.

Does he know that Arthur is hovering beside him with bated breath? Difficult to say. Eventually, they come across a bench and Alfred takes a seat, sipping at his coffee and drumming his finger along the side of the fake wooden slats. Arthur cautiously sits down beside him, carefully folding his wings. They spend some time in silence.

A cold wind picks up. Alfred draws his jacket closer around himself and bends into his coffee, breathing heavily so that the steam curls up to warm his face. Arthur shifts and watches the fading sunlight dance over the sidewalk. He does feel the cold, but only on the very surface of his skin. He has no temperature. He does not exist. But still he shivers, although perhaps only out of reflex.

A moment passes and Alfred looks up. His eyebrows draw together. Then he is setting down his coffee and undoing the scarf wound around his neck. It is bright and woolen. He thrusts it towards thin air. Towards Arthur. Half is still wound around his neck. When Arthur ducks his head, it falls into the place where his shoulders might be.

It is a blotch of color bleeding into the nothingness that is his skin.

He beats his wings tentatively.

_Thank you._

Alfred smiles and takes a long sip from his coffee.

_Sure thing._

Arthur supposes that it is inevitable.

She is certainly a pretty thing, at least. Carnations in the cheeks, round breasts, little ringlets of yellow hair that fall to the shoulders. When she is surprised or amazed, she becomes ruffled and flutters about like an upset bird. She boasts elaborate, flowery handwriting and an arsenal of pink erasers lined up on the edge of her desk. In Arthur's opinion, her only real merit lies in those sharp little eyes that catch on things that glitter: cheap earrings hanging from the sale rack, a discarded tube of lipgloss at the foot of the desk at the far side of the room, and Alfred Jones.

She runs up to him after class, clutching her books to her chest.

"So I was wondering," she begins as she falls into step beside him. She unwittingly impedes Arthur's wingspan with her right shoulder; he grimaces and flaps a few beats to the left as she talks about the upcoming weekend, and eventually asks if Alfred has any plans yet.

Arthur bristles; Alfred blinks and opens his mouth. He pauses and Arthur can see his soul balanced on is tongue, flickering uncertainly between brilliant gold and the rusty light that might be cast by an old florescent bulb. Finally he licks his lips and answers honestly: no, he doesn't.

The expected request follows - perhaps they could go to the movies, or maybe the mall? - and Alfred stops, color flooding his cheeks, and stares at his battered sneakers. He toes a crack in the sidewalk, perhaps trying to seem occupied. Arthur wants to shake him violently and protect him in the same moment. The girl twirls a yellow ringlet about her index finger.

"Sure," says Alfred finally, "we can go see a movie."

The girl melts into blushing smiles. She is a foolish thing. She titters away and Alfred and Arthur walk home together in silence.

(They never speak aloud, of course, but for the first time in months they are truly silent.)

Jealousy is another human emotion to which Arthur has grown unaccustomed. He finds that it burns and burbles through his veins, flushes his cheeks and leaves him restless, makes the downy white plumage on his wings shiver and tremble. Saturday arrives and he bitterly watches Alfred comb his hair in the mirror. He manages to move the bottle of gel to the other side of the bathroom counter.

_Are you excited,_ he is asking, _what do you think of her?_

Alfred pauses, sucking on his lower lip, and shrugs. Arthur frowns and flaps his wings forcefully, so that his bangs ruffle across his forehead. Alfred rolls his eyes and pushes them back into place.

"Sorry," he says, "I'm just not a decisive kind of guy."

Arthur won't go into the theater; the noise and light and sound and the reek of buttered popcorn are still too overwhelming for him, and besides, he thinks that he is going to behave. But Alfred and the girl emerge after some indeterminable and unpleasant time, still laughing from a joke Arthur didn't hear, and when the girl tilts her pretty face up and puckers her tiny mouth and lets her eyelids droop, Arthur forgets. He flaps his wings violently and wraps his arms around Alfred and pulls at his waist; Alfred doesn't stumble backwards, but Arthur knows he feels it.

The girl is too stunned to be offended when Alfred stutters an excuse and turns and bolts towards his car, not bothering to check for a sign of Arthur's presence because he already knows he is following. He falls into the front seat with a faint sigh and rests his forehead against the window for a moment before he jams the ignition. Arthur is already settled in the passenger seat, wings folded uncomfortably behind him. He feels remorseful, fearful, and triumphant, and savors the flavor of the emotions on the tip of his tongue. He turns on the radio.

_Sorry. _

Alfred shakes his head as they pull from the parking lot.

"Don't be," he says, "I don't like her."

Arthur raises an eyebrow and changes the station, thankful that his concentration doesn't stumble for the bubble of happiness rising in his throat.

_Oh, so now you're decisive? _

Alfred laughs and nods. "There are some things that I know for sure."

Arthur swallows - does he dare? he does - and changes the station again.

_Such as? _

Alfred shifts in his seat and glances at the empty space beside him. His expression softens for a moment and he places his hand on the armrest. An invitation, Arthur realizes with a jolt. He winds their fingers together. Alfred shrugs. Arthur smirks.

Back to being indecisive, it would seem.

* * *

Alfred Jones is a fool, and just one day of experience would be enough to tell you that.

Arthur has had weeks to discover it.

He has seen Alfred trip over his own shoelaces halfway down the hallway. He has seen Alfred willingly hand over his science homework only to have it trampled by a stampede of kids with blank papers. He has seen him try to open doors for girls only to smack into the frame and end up with a bruised nose. He has seen him break his glasses countless times, and just as many times he has seen him stop in front of his bedroom mirror afterwards and adjust the crooked frames and flash a ridiculous grin all while mumbling something about a boy wizard.

But Alfred Jones is an endearing fool. He laughs everything off with a shrug and a flash of golden hair and glittering teeth. Girls giggle and blush at his antics. Boys admire him. Even the coldest and meanest teachers cannot help but soften against the force of that smile. He is like sunshine in autumn.

And for his part, Arthur loves him.

He loves him so much that sometimes he forgets that angels cannot spend all their time on Earth. He forgets that he will become sickly and the feathers of his wings will slowly pale and begin to tremble away. He forgets the sweet air of Heaven and the soft voices of his brothers and sisters. He forgets it all, and all for love.

For once, Arthur is the fool.

He does not notice how sick he has become until one day halfway through winter he is hovering beside Alfred in the classroom and a stray beam of sunlight nearly blinds him. He gasps, lifts a hand to his face, staggers backwards. His wings whirl and stir the air into a frenzy. He cannot control them at all for a long time and in the end he scarcely regains himself enough to stumble from the room. He collides with a few desks and sends the odd paper or eraser flying in his wake; the commotion is such that even the other students shift in their seats, unsettled, though they could never say why.

And as for Alfred, he can taste the distress in the air and escapes as soon as he can, mumbling an excuse and snagging a bathroom pass before he tears into the halls. Arthur is supporting himself on the windowsill, his wings hanging limply to the floor. His shoulder blades bend beneath the weight. His chest heaves. Alfred takes a step towards him. He reaches out. The sunlight filters through and catches in his hair, the frames of his glasses.

Tentatively, his fingers brush the tips of Arthur's wings. They are not solid to his touch but even so a shiver of electricity crackles between them. Arthur stares over his shoulder. His stomach is turning and his knees are trembling but he feels strangely happy. Alfred meets his eyes. His expression is twisted in concern.

_Can angels die?_

Arthur wants to laugh, he wants to tell him of course not, it's alright, he'll be fine, but instead he crumples into him and clutches at his shoulder even though his fingertips evaporate like mist the moment they reach his skin. Still he breathes him deeply, tastes the warm earthy living smell of him, bathes in the golden wash of his soul glimmering from his slightly parted lips.

And Alfred somehow knows he is there collapsed in his arms and holds him, makes as if to stroke at his hair, whispering nonsense into his neck. Comfort. He smells like sunshine and leather. His glass-spun words float into the air to shatter into a thousand glittering pieces that rain down around them and catch the light.

Arthur's wings shiver and then they are alive again.

What love takes, love returns.

* * *

There is too much time to think when you're dead.

Arthur was never bothered by this before. In fact, the inherently silent art of Observation became his entire existence. He began to keep a catalog of thoughts, of things he noticed, a jumbled collection of all the little idiosyncrasies of human consciousness itself. Perhaps it was so easy because he had nothing. Nothing of value, nothing into which he could pour his heart, nothing but blank paper and no paint. A peaceful if not colorless way of life (or lack thereof).

But now it all drives him mad. The racing of his mind, the frantic pace of his thought, the buzzing buzzing buzzing in his head like some sort of insubstantial imitation heartbeat. And what drives him mad most of all is that he cannot stop wondering. It is next to unbearable. Every other minute he is questioning something. Anything in the world, perhaps himself, everything and nothing, the wind in the trees, the blue of the sky, and last but not least of course the center of his quiet pale existence: Alfred Jones.

He wonders how the smile can be genuine when Arthur has done nothing to deserve such a treasure. He wonders how those moments when they kiss (rendered excruciatingly real as they are with flesh and blood, blood pounding hot through his veins) can be anything more than a byproduct of imagination, of longing, of silly love for a golden (living!) young boy.

But most of all Arthur wonders how Alfred can possibly be satisfied with nothing more than a breath of air at his side, a breath of air instead of a flushed smiling girl clinging to his hand. Arthur desperately wonders how he can possibly prefer the insubstantial lifeless fingers of a ghost, kisses lighter than the air itself, to warmth and laughter and cheap dates at the cinema. It is with this question that he wonders himself half-mad.

It cannot be true, he thinks to himself in desperation. He needs a conclusion. It makes no sense. It cannot be true.

But Alfred stays. Against all logic and reason, against the truth itself, Alfred stays.

Arthur is perplexed.

Winter again. It is a clear day and the sky is a high arc of blue crystal above their heads as they walk home from school together. This has been their routine for a long time, and nobody asks for Alfred to come play a round of football or to grab some food anymore. Everyone knows that he is busy. By this point they've even stopped wondering what's keeping him.

They are quiet. Arthur is thinking. Wondering. He steals a glance at Alfred. He looks happy. It drives Arthur insane. How? How? His wings tremble. He grits his teeth and hopes passionately that Alfred won't notice. He shouldn't notice because he can't see. But somehow he does. He always does.

He stops and turns to face Arthur, holding up a hand, and Arthur cannot simply brush past him. Impossible. He hovers in place, beating his wings every now and again to stay afloat. Alfred watches him evenly, as if he could actually make out the lines of his face, as if he were something more than a whisper or the slightest breeze.

You're upset. What's the matter?

Arthur wants to say nothing. He wants to tell Alfred to forget about it, that he wouldn't be able to help. But suddenly he feels a wave break in his chest and then words are tumbling from his lips, or perhaps not, but somehow Alfred can hear. His eyes widen and his mouth falls open. His soul is still there, glowing golden. The sight only makes Arthur talk faster, more desperately. He feels tears sting his eyes.

_I love you I love you I love you so and you act like you love me, too, but how can that be possible when I am nothing and you are everything and everyone else is something how how how I don't deserve you because you deserve to be free and how can you tie yourself to a breath of air how and yet you do and you love me and I don't understand and it can't be true and I can't believe it but I love you and it drives me crazy all this thinking but I can't stop I'm sorry I've said too much._

Alfred stares. Arthur bites his lips. Holds back the tears. Angels can't cry anyways. Then Alfred takes a step forwards. He takes a step forwards and grabs his hand (somehow, somehow, grabs his hand, and it feels real, and his skin is warm and living) and suddenly Arthur is drowning in the crook of his arm, in the rich autumn smell of his jacket, the golden glow of his soul leaking from his parted lips.

"Shut up," he cries. He cannot bring himself to care if people on the street stare at the boy clinging onto nothing. "Just shut up. I never want to hear you say anything like that again, ever."

Arthur is still for a long moment. Finally his wings shudder. Alfred pulls him closer, closer still, as if that were possible, and lifts his face.

"You're extraordinary," he says, quite honestly, and kisses Arthur until he believes it.

* * *

He would like to show Alfred the place.

He doesn't know exactly what to call it because he doesn't know exactly where or what it is. He only knows that his brothers and their Father live there, that it is a world spun of everything insubstantial, where souls float like bobbing lanterns through the deep blue air, and that he would very much like to show it to Alfred.

Why, he doesn't know. He simply wants, and the dead are free to follow the caprices of their heart. He begins to sketch the message for Alfred, sending breezes through his hair, rearranging objects on his crowded desk, leaving kisses that melt across his skin like snowflakes.

_I want to show you something. Will you come? _

They are lost in midnight when Alfred finally understands, and rolls over beneath the sheets to turn on his lamp. He holds out his hand, smiling.

_Take me there._

Arthur realizes with a jolt that Alfred trusts him. He feels his faith smooth and heavy in the palm of his hand, cut with a thousand facets (for he gives himself away easily) like a gem, another glittering treasure for Arthur to covet like a snowy magpie. He beats his wings once, lets his fingers ghost along the line of Alfred's jaw; though he surely cannot feel the touch, after so much time Alfred understands the request and closes his eyes, tilts his face upwards to meet Arthur's lips, opens his mouth. Arthur feels the wash of golden warmth against his face, braces himself, and allows the tip of his tongue to brush the belly of Alfred's soul.

The pain of rebirth nearly shatters his concentration; he has to knot his fingers into Alfred's hair to keep from pulling away. Real blood rushes hot and thick through his veins; he feels the coarse texture of Alfred's hair in his fists, but he summons the image into his mind as he always had, that dreamlike vision of the faraway world spun of impossibility, and wills himself there, clinging onto Alfred, swallowing his gasp of surprise as they feel the world melt away beneath them.

_Hush,_ he whispers as he feels their bodies flake away, still kissing Alfred, breathing for him, living and dying for him, _hush, everything is alright. _

Alfred whimpers and returns the kiss.

Eventually, they are enveloped in the familiar embrace of the air, cool as a dream around them. Arthur tentatively opens his eyes and is relieved to see that he has succeeded, that he has brought them to the land of Father. Alfred, feeling the kiss come to an end, slowly opens his eyes and looks around, bewildered for a moment before he glances up at Arthur and reels backwards.

"It's you!" he cries, and seems stunned to hear his voice echo around the endless midnight-blue confines of the world. "But is it really you?"

He looks like a fool, crouched there in his pajamas, pointing a trembling finger, the shadows playing curious games across his face. Arthur smiles.

"Please don't be frightened," he murmurs, reaching out to cup his cheek. Alfred leans into his hand hesitantly.

"This is my home," explains Arthur, "but we may return to Earth whenever you wish."

Alfred stares at him for a long moment, sucking on his lower lip.

"Your voice…" he whispers, and his voice is dry, crackling as if his throat were covered in dust. "I can hear your voice." He reaches out and puts his hand on Arthur's cheek, too. His touch is cool; no blood flows beneath the skin. "And your wings…" He touches them tentatively and a shiver arches up Arthur's spine. "You're beautiful."

Arthur blinks and sinks to his knees. He hesitates a moment, then throws his arms around Alfred's neck, drawing him in, burying his face into the crook of his shoulder. Alfred is still for a long moment, then he sighs deeply and wraps his arms around Arthur's waist, pressing his lips into his neck.

"I didn't know why, at first," Arthur confesses after a time, his voice sounding almost like a sob. "Why I wanted to bring you here, that is."

He feels Alfred turn his head against his neck. "And?"

Arthur kisses him helplessly.

"I think I wanted to touch you," he sighs when they break apart, running his thumb along the arc of Alfred's cheekbone. "To touch you without having to be human."

* * *

Sometimes when Alfred is in school and the lesson is dull, Arthur flits from the classroom and goes to watch other couples. This quickly becomes a habit. He cannot break away. He stares at young women as they giggle and bob and blossom like pale trembling flowers in the breeze. It is autumn and they wind together their gloved fingers and their shoulders brush and the man smiles and the girl blushes and lets him buy her a coffee. Arthur fills with jealousy. Another human emotion. Hot and terrible and consuming and reassuring.

He wonders if Alfred's fingers are warm and dry as they look. He reckons they are. He has seen the calluses that pattern his hands, the traces of footballs and the hilt of a pocketknife and scrapes and paper cuts. They spell out a rich history of contact. Arthur wonders how frequently one must touch something in order to leave a mark. He wonders if he could ever leave a remnant. A memory. His name etched into the curve of his palm by his own fingertips.

_ Don't forget me._

Alfred is in fine spirits. Friday and he has scored the winning touchdown in the neighborhood football game in the old abandoned lot. Matthew wanted him to stay longer but he's heading home now, content to ride on the thrill of his victory. The leaves are thick on the ground and every step is an explosion of color. The wind is crisp but not cutting and the sky is a pale shell even with the wash of late afternoon sunshine smoothing like gold leaf over the horizon. Arthur hovers beside him and tastes the warmth of his soul peeking from his parted lips. He is so happy that it glows more strongly than ever. Arthur is glad.

Alfred rubs his hands together and breathes into them once or twice. His cheeks are tipped with pink and his breath forms opaque clouds. Perhaps it is colder than Arthur reckons. He watches Alfred's fingers forming a cup around his mouth as if to catch his exhale. He brushes one wing against his shoulder in the hopes that he will get a sense.

_Congratulations. You were wonderful._

Alfred grins.

_I know._

Arthur rolls his eyes and bats his wings so that a flurry of leaves swirls up from the sidewalk. Alfred laughs and rubs at the back of his neck.

_Seriously. Thanks._

Arthur smiles and folds his wings back so that he hovers alongside Alfred again. His eyes flicker to his hands. He is not wearing gloves and the knuckles are pink and raw. He bites down on his lower lip. Never will they be able to do what other couples do. Perhaps Alfred does not even consider them to be a couple. Arthur does not know why he even hopes.

Perhaps Alfred senses his distress. Arthur can never tell why these things happen. But suddenly his fingers are winding around Arthur's hand and for some reason everything is very tangible. Arthur gasps. His palm is indeed warm and dry. His touch feels real. He can taste his pulse singing nervously beneath his thumb. Dear boy. He feels the calluses left on his skin by time. He swells with love.

And then he runs his thumb over the same spot on the back of his hand over and over again in the hopes that perhaps someday he might leave a trace, too.

* * *

Most days are good now but some days are bad and then Arthur sees the colors and wants to scream. The sidewalk is grey and the sheets are tired white and the clouds strike some sort of cross between the two. On cloudy days it is more bearable. Everything is still so bright, but on cloudy days it is all more bearable and Arthur can pretend that he can breathe.

But sometimes the sun is strong and then - !

And then the sky is blue, blue, so impossibly blue that it burns his eyes, becomes a razor sharp slice of blue blue impossibly blue porcelain digging into his skin, and everything is alive, the trees are green and the sunlight dances, and everything is alive and Arthur is not.

Everything is alive and Arthur is not and it is terrible. The carpet of grass, the vivid orange tomcat that darts across the lawn, the apples that hang in the branches of the trees like ripe bloodstains against the leaves, they are all reminders, reminders, reminders. They tell him: You do not live. Here is a world that is a miracle of color and you are nothing more than a shadow. A blank slip of paper. Nothing. Nothing. Not even the slightest breeze tickling the grass. Nothing.

And then there is Alfred, who is more alive than anything. He is impossibly full with color. He swells with it as if he might burst. There is the crystal sparkle of his eyes that shatters and twinkles like breaking glass, blue as the merciless sky, the glittering peal of his laughter, a rainbow of sound, the beaten earthy leather of his jacket, the bright red flash of his mouth, the porcelain gleam of his teeth, the corn-colored wink of his hair and the rich golden glow of his soul nestled in his throat. And the rest of the spectrum lies in the tiniest details that only Arthur has the heart to remember.

Most of the time, this brilliance is a blessing, a gift, a treasure. Most of the time, Arthur clutches it near to his chest. But on bad days it is a curse. Something to be dreaded as much as it is beloved. And an addiction despite the pain, despite the excruciating reminder.

You are blank, colorless. You can never be like me.

No no no! And Arthur wants to tear at his hair. But of course you're right. Never.

Alfred proves otherwise.

It is another bad day and perhaps he senses Arthur's distress. Perhaps that is why he looks up from his homework and leans back from the desk. Arthur is curled on his bed with his wings folded tightly, staring into the sheets. They are blank and even though they do not quite block out the mocking vividness of the rest of the room, they at least ease the pain a little. It is less sharp and becomes more like a headache. Throbbing. And yet Arthur does not want to close his eyes.

Alfred shifts the chair backwards.

_Something the matter? _

Arthur shakes his head, lets his wings shiver apart and snap back together. The air in the room swirls. The bed groans. _No, don't worry about me. This happens._

But Alfred is standing up and Arthur cannot help but to gaze at him miserably. He is so bright. Like a master took his brush and palette and scattered paint all over him. A swirl of color. Arthur wishes he could cry. He was not even so brilliant in life. What is he now but a flimsy mist-colored shroud draped over this shining boy? He is ashamed of himself.

Alfred watches him for a long time. Then he leaves. Arthur does not move. Alfred returns. In his hand is a small bouquet of flowers. It is only just spring and the blossoms are young. Baby's breath and violets and bluebells. A spray of pink petals. Little dollops of bright red shaped like bells. Orange mums. Buttercups. Arthur stares. Alfred sets the flowers down on the bed.

Arthur reaches out to touch a petal and for a moment the color seems to flood his skin. It is only an illusion of course but he gasps. Alfred smiles. Golden. Arthur feels the gold leaf smooth onto his fingertips past his wrists up his arms to his shoulders to touch the edges of his smile. He is smiling. Smiling.

He leans up and kisses Alfred and then finally, finally, finally, there is only one color, nothing but gold.

* * *

**AN** - heyo! long time no see. this is from a long time ago (i didn't edit it before publishing haha) and was originally published as a series of drabbles on tumblr. i had a great time with this AU actually. it's pretty ironic that i'm into destiel now considering the subject matter harrumph.

also: it has fanart! CurlyX on DA was kind enough to make a comic of the first installment it's so beautiful omg i peed myself when i saw it but anyways: h()ttp(:/) .com(/art/)USUK-All-that-Glitters-285182966?offset=0#comments

just take out the parentheses if you want! it's gorgeous. i haven't been able to contact the artist but if for some reason you see this, ugh please PM me or drop by my ask on tumblr something because! i need to tell you all my feelings for your art without spamming the readers.

anyways, thanks so much for reading! (i'll update _Pointblank_ as soon as i can, and that's a promise)

**PS** - oh yeah and if you want to see the original format of the series: .com(/)tagged(/)angel!au


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